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Ch. 9: Witches
Back to The Men in Brown It was probably not surprising that Chris had that night yet another Dream. The bridge he faced was solid and yet graceful as it reached across the river, as most old architecture is. A great statue of a crowned rider stood above him, bronze tarnished with uncounted years of age, guarding the bridge. Dominating the view was Blanik mountain, and every tree upon it was wilting and going yellow. Chris wondered if the April drought had continued into June over here, and then the wood was all around him, yellow and speckled green as if it was autumn, fallen leaves littering the ground. A huge dead oak, so long skeletal that all its’ bark had fallen, caught his eye: because green shoots were sprouting from the dead wood. There was a gurgle at his feet. A spring that had withered up and was only a pit amid black stones, was seeping again. No, not seeping: flowing, a perfect torrent erupting from it, like a cloudy blue-grey flood. “The three signs of the three kings returning.” said a voice from around him: Merlin’s, it sounded like. “Yet no men now remember them, and pass them by without a glance.” Chris looked up at the statue that he was somehow back underneath of. He could not take his eyes off the face. So strangely radiant and kindly a face. Wondering who he was, Chris dropped his eyes to the pedestal. There were words there, sure enough. Likely in some insane Slavic language. But he was wrong, for it was a name, and a name he knew. '' Wenceslaus. '' He was only aware the statue was coming alive by the flush and motion rippling through the bronze feet before him. He looked up, startled, to see bronze blushing into flesh and cloth, to see hair move and eyes turn, and Good King Wenceslaus sit living upon a living steed, come back from the dead. A sort of glow and halo seemed to waver around him. He spurred his horse forward, so that it smote the paving-stones with a great crash; and one shattered, and as the horse pawed the fragments aside there lay exposed a mighty sword. St. Wenceslaus seized the sword of the hero Bruncvik. Blanik mountain shook to its’ bones. Out of the mountain rode knights in black armor upon white horses, like a host of ants: the mountain seemed to swarm with them. Two other kings rode up from opposite directions, each one also glowy and wavery like Wenceslaus, for they too were Saints, and Saints returned from the dead. A great smile broke out on each face as they greeted. “Hail, brothers.” said Wenceslaus. “The time has come. Let us take our great army to meet the King.” “The King is already upon us.” said the second rider. “He saw from afar the signs of our awaking, and has come to meet us.” Even as he spoke the army of the Sleepers rode up from nowhere. A bizarre and awful sight it was now, with the huge giant thudding beside it and the greenish-white of the ghost riders and the great banner flowing in the branches of the walking Tree that strode at the head of the host. The two great armies came to a halt, host facing host: but that of Wenceslaus was far more numerous than that of Wayham. “Whom art thee?” said Wayham King, shifting into man. “I am Wenceslaus of Bohemia. This is Stephen of Hungary and Ladislaus of Poland. We are the three saintly kings of the North. We have come with our great army on the Sacred Heart’s feast to serve beneath the King.” Wayham bowed his head. “I am most honored to have the Saints within my ranks, and unworthy as I am I beseech your intercession and your blessing on my host.” Root had just gone home for the day. Chris had had to be coached on how to phrase sentences and form a coherent narrative, and as a result the entire day had been spent writing out the account of his Dreams. It had been an exhausting process. And just when the boys wanted to play in the stream, Mom sent them to Super Stop & Shop to buy some flour. It was a fine day for a bike ride, though. The air was dry and cool, though the sun was hot, and grey-frosted white cheesecake clouds sailed in layered rows across the deep blue. The green hills had the odd clear hard cauliflower-texture that early summer gives them. Accordingly the boys only grumbled a little. They got the right kind of flour after a little searching, and waited in line at the checkout, looking away from the flashy gross magazines with their kaleidoscope of smiling lovely girls. The cashier was a very odd-looking young girl: slim, with blue-black hair and peculiar features. Chris could not stop looking at her. She had a strange, repellant beauty: pretty in a spare chiseled way, made up to look paler than natural, eyes outlined to seem sharp and slanting, thin lips painted blood-red, a wide but somehow unsettling smile that seemed like a dagger blade sliding under something. Her tapered hands with their thin deft fingers looked almost cruel. She looks like a witch, he thought. The line moved closer. Her hair wasn’t black; more an extremely dark navy-blue sheen on black hair. On her wrist he noticed a queer symbol like a six-pointed star, but the upper side horns were bent around like a heart. “Hi, how are you today?” she said when Chris and Stephen reached the register. The lady in front was still packing her groceries into her cart. The witchlike cashier deftly slid the bag of flour over the scanner. Chris, watching those spidery fingers with a strange repulsed fascination, saw them suddenly trace something on the clear plastic counter. There was a red flicker from the scanner and some odd beeps from under the clear plastic. The girl gave an exasperated sigh. “’Cate, now I need a manager. Come with me; I’ll have Customer Service check this, ‘cause it’s showing up false.” Apologising with another shark-like smile to the people in line, the girl headed out from her alcove behind the counter, beckoning the boys to follow. “I don’t like this.” Chris muttered to Stephen. “I think we should split.” “Mom sent us to buy flour.” “Yeah, but…she looks creepy.” “It’s Stop & Shop. We’re right out in public.” “That’s comforting.” muttered Chris. The girl in her yellow shirt and black apron and black tight pants reached the Customer Service desk, an alcove in the wall accessed by a side aisle with a counter in front facing the cash registers. Cigarettes and lottery tickets stood in colorful racks behind it. The passage on the left ended at two doors on its’ right side, one to enter the desk area and the further to enter a small room behind it. “Chrissy? I need an override.” she called. There was no one at the counter, but from the little room in back a woman’s voice called querulously for them to come in here, for cryin’ out loud. It was a very grandmotherly voice. The girl rolled her eyes and beckoned to the boys. They went down the side aisle, a blank blind alley with pale tan walls. On the right the door was opening. “I’m not going in there.” said Chris. “Me either.” said Stephen. The girl turned to them, and her sharp smile was more like a blade than ever. “Oh, yes you are.” she said. The tattoo on her wrist suddenly turned a dark red. Both boys felt unseen clamps of thick, enfolding power close on their limbs and compel muscle and bone to move. Like zombies they marched in through the door. The witch quickly closed it behind them. An old woman sat in the desk chair,. a faded orange cardigan covering a stout figure, greyish-orange hair, an ugly face with glasses, a disquieting smile growing in her eyes. In her hands she played with a cane of black twisted wood: laurel, though the boys did not know this. “You really are a witch.” said Chris. “You can’t do this! Let us out of here before we scream!” Stephen was yelling. “Sound is not permitted to leave this room.” said the old woman. “Nor will you. We have watched you for a long time, but you were always too close to those whom we fear. The Dragons cannot find you or touch you…but we are not dragons. I am the Witch of Winchester.” “You can’t harm us! We’re Christians!” shouted Chris. “But not Catholics.” the Witch of Winchester said, still with that disquieting smile. “Your protection is feeble. I can give it an override—though it is painful.” Her laurel cane lifted, red light running down the polished black wood. “Now you will tell us all you have dreamed…and also you will tell us about the Men in Brown.” The store dissolved around them. A cemetary replaced it. Woods shut it in, but the sun shone white and stark upon it, and on the leaves of the ancient maples that walled it. Black and red upon the nearest tree was spraypainted a five-pointed star inside a circle: a pentagram, sign of magic. One of the maples grew in two sundered halves, each half standing separate: yet a giant rock clove it, partway up, stuck between the two halves in defiance of all the laws of nature. A woman in nurse’s white stood there, middle-aged, her crazed face with green eyes lined and haggard under her wild brown hair. Old broken tombstones straggled across the grass like broken teeth. The place, in despite—or perhaps because of—the stark daylight, felt eerie. Felt evil. “This is the Green Lady Cemetary of Burlington.” said the Witch of Winchester. “And here is the Witch in White, who bears the Green Lady.” Both witches reached toward the boys, their hands growing larger and larger. Through Christopher’s mind began to flash his Dreams, one by one, as if they were being turned like the pages of a book. Then he saw again the moonlit bridge, and heard the echo of the eerie rhyme that Wimbledon had sung. “Sing it for us.” said the Witch in White, her voice multiple somehow, as if two people were speaking at once. A green light wavered in her eyes. “We cannot hear it.” In a quavering voice that swelled as he sang until the words rolled like thunder in the silent summer woods, Chris sang the rhyme of the Men in Brown. “The Men in Brown '' ''They came to town '' ''Upon a chill May morning '' '' '' ''Nine could you see '' ''If you had some glee '' ''About you in the lorning '' '' '' ''The Hill and the Wood '' ''The House of the Hood '' ''And the Blade and Bow abounding '' '' '' ''The son of the Air '' ''Who has overmuch hair '' ''And the Human-hater howling '' '' '' ''The old graveshand '' ''And the Leatherman '' ''And then last of all, John Wimble.” '' His child’s voice sank into silence. The two witches stared fixedly, deep in thought. When the second voice began they started violently: deep but lighthearted, like an old man singing in the morning, it echoed distantly at first, then ever closer, as if the singer was approaching at incredible speed. ''“Old John Wimbledon, he’s a tricky fellow '' ''Deep brown his jacket is, and his boots are fallow. '' ''None have dared outrun him yet, for John he is the faster '' ''Every hill a hopping-stone, and of his feet is master.” '' “How in hell did HE find us?!” hissed the Witch of Winchester. “Is the very mention of his name a summons?!” “Peace, my sister.” said the dual voice of the Witch in White. “He long ago ceased to be the Master of owt save his own feet. We are three. He is one.” “We cannot hope to hold this place against the others.” said the Witch of Winchester. “Even still…we know some of what the Dreamer has seen.” There was a thump and bound. As if he had only jumped over the wall, John Wimbledon dropped into the open grassy rectangle. He was a small man, but incredibly active; his movements were both jerky and powerful, like an old warrior preparing to spring. He wore a broad straw hat over his short hair, but a long brown beard streaked grey swung as he moved. He wore a deep brown jacket and dull black pants; his round red face was like an old wrinkled apple; his leather work boots were tawny and scuffed. His eyes were deep brilliant blue, and Chris at the sight of them lost track of time for one strange and dreadful moment, as if he hung suspended in some timeless place and gazed into a well of ancient memory and wisdom, sparkling with an eternal wide wonderment. The ancient maples stirred and roared as if in a great wind, though the air hung breathless. “And what, old fool, do you think you are doing bearding the witches in their own den?” the Witch of Winchester challenged. “My name was sung, and where it is I follow.” said the new arrival. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m John Wimbledon! Let those boys go. I know the tune for you.” The air as he spoke thickened all around them, as if suddenly pregnant with power. “I’ll sing you a song that’ll strike you into shadows, send you wailing like the cold mist, till your Lord catches you and tortures you for failing.” “Your songs were only fit in lands where you were Master.” the Witch said remotely. “You old pacifist, though you set borders you could not sing back the Ice, and though you preserved the Holbytla through the Waters you could not save your land; you came out and found you were Master of a mudfield.” “Twas I that sang the trees back, sang the pines a-growing, sang back birch and ash into salted valleys. Thence from Euriedor replanted did my trees spread, their seeds sprouting green again upon the muddy hillsides.” “And all of them you sang to life had left their spirits and lingered lifeless, voiceless vegetables who could never be shepherded. And all the Ents and Talking Trees had perished from your world. Where is your Goldberry, your pretty maiden dancing? Why could you not deliver her, the daughter of the River? Her springs were buried far too deep, broken in the breaking; your lovely river-maid withered up beside you!” taunted the Witch. “Goldberry is peaceful now, she lies within her long place.” Wimbledon answered softly. “There I hope at last to come, when my long task is here done.” “We can send you quickly there, if you decide to linger.” the Witch said with a dangerous smile. “Get out, you old fool! Vanish in the darkness! Shrivel on the bitter winds, like the ice go wailing, into under-darkness far beneath the surface! Where waiting lies my Lord, his mouth is gaping widely: Chaos waits to there receive the old fool who is coming!” The sun went in. A shadow deepened upon the woods, and daylight faded. In the dim gloom the painted symbol on the old tree blazed in its’ own light, like a fractured eye outlined in smoke and flame. Out of the darkness the voice of John Wimbledon rolled like thunder. “Cast thee out from off this place, this ground that should be holy: cast thee out in greater names than that which here alone Is! Here none have ever matched him yet, he was made the master: he was set to tend the earth, to drive out the intruders! Cast thee out by Everwhite, by Him who ruleth Truly: cast thee out by wood and stone, by earth and wind and water!” The darkness lightened. In the returning paleness Chris saw the two witches, stooping, bending as before a storm-wind, red and green flame in their eyes. High and huge rose their voices in answer to the song that was forcing them back. “Do thou dare to sing of earth, when earth is held and locked against thee? Do thou dare to sing of stone when stone is but the bones of Ymir? Do thou dare to sing against us, in whom was not the strength of battle? In the last day thou wouldst fall, Fatherless, if all else foundered: and Morgoth sitteth incarnated in the Earth thou claim to master! Thou hast sung of other names; of other names we sing against ye! Dragons and the ''Jötunheimr, the Nine Lords and the Vampire! Hell has many ancient legions, names of might and of damnation: fall, then, Wimble, as thou must!” The darkness deepened. In the pouring shadow the red light of the wand of the Witch of Winchester blazed like lightning. John Wimbledon could be seen darting about, here, there and all around, from treetop to tree limb, as the darting blades of magic probed and lashed upon his heels. Darkness slowed him, ground him down: soon he would no longer be able to elude. Another voice grew amid the storm, deep and throbbing, driving, pulsing: the terrible chanting of which the boys had only seen glimpses in the tellings of Root. They felt those notes sinking like soaking water into earth and rock, tree and ground: felt them pulse in blood and bone. '' '' “Cease to sing thee further, witches, '' ''If thou life would cling to living! '' ''Cease thy hold upon the death-ground '' ''Loose it from thy cold dominion, '' ''Let the maples grow contented '' ''No more by your deeds contorted; '' ''Let the dead rest on in slumber '' ''Free from thy poisoning power '' ''Loose these boys from off thy clutches '' ''Cast from them the chains of chantment '' ''Or I’ll sing thee thine origins '' ''Tell thee of thy own beginnings! '' '' '' ''Filley, thou wast once a maiden '' ''Walking merry in the mountains '' ''Till thou came upon a rock-chair '' ''Built of rocks upon a hill-top '' ''There the witches wont to sit were '' ''When they wished to watch afield '' ''Death crept up that chair into thee '' ''As thou clined against the backbone '' ''Thou rose thence from there a witchlass '' ''Growing darker, darker, deeper '' ''Till on Temple Fell thou offered '' ''Thine own babe upon the altar. '' '' '' ''White, thou wast one time a woman '' ''Mother caring for her children '' ''Once thou hungered for thy Mother '' ''For the Holy Church, thy Mother '' ''But thou grew to be neurotic '' ''Superstitious, thou psychotic '' ''Till within this very graveyard '' ''Thou attacked a deadly coven '' ''Thou art now possessed a woman '' ''Green the ghost that moves thy vision '' '' '' ''Green Lady, Liza Palmiter, '' ''Well I know of thyself also. '' ''Once thou wast an anxious goodwife '' ''Hastening with lighted lantern '' ''Through the perils of the swampland '' ''Through the snow-concealed swampland '' ''Where thou fell and soaked did freeze dead '' ''Till thy husband thee dead finded '' ''Shall I sing of you yet farther, '' ''Shall I sing ye into mire, '' ''By my singing thee transforming '' ''Till the oak creeps up thy figure '' ''Wood and sap replace thy life-stream '' ''Flint and rock become thy foot-toes '' ''Fungus-mushrooms in thy pupils '' ''Fungus-bark upon thy out-skin! '' '' '' ''Loose these boys from off their prison '' ''Or I’ll sing thee into quicksand '' ''Freezing mire, icy quicksand '' ''Till the cold shall wrap thy fingers '' ''Crack the flesh within thy heart-bones '' ''Chill the skin from off thy features '' ''Cool thy blood as thick as treacle '' ''I am able this to bear out: '' ''All of this I can accomplish: '' ''I am son of air and water '' ''Son of Ukko’s mighty daughter!” '' Slowly silence grew in the haunted graveyard. As the light brightened, Chris and Stephen saw that both witches were gone; and where they stood, two pools of mire lay, already crystallising into ice. Beside John Wimbledon stood their tutor Root, taller and stronger, bearded and ancient: he seemed for a moment to be not human at all, but some mighty hero stepped out of the deeps of the past into the daylight. Trying to move, they found they could, and raced over to their rescuers. “Are they dead?” babbled Chris. “They are.” said Root. “No human can survive having his flesh’s accidents changed and scattered and rearranged into something inhuman, unless the change takes care to keep the life pulsing in it. But whether they stay dead, is the question: and beings so old in evil, are not easy to keep in the ground. You are not hurt?” “No, we’re fine.” said Stephen, calming down somewhat. “Did you—was that you singing like that?” said Chris. “It was.” replied Root. Slowly the colossal truth began to dawn on the two boys. “It was you,” breathed Chris. “The son of the air, who has overmuch hair.” “John always was rather irreverent.” said Root, giving his companion a dirty look. Wimbledon put on an innocent expression. “But so it is. I am he. I am of the Men in Brown.” “But who are you?” said Stephen. “I doubt you would quite believe it if I told you, even after all that has happened.” said Root. “But my name is not rightly Root. That name, like Wimbledon, is one I took on. I am one of the ancient Singers. I am the last of bearded heros. I am son of Air and Water.” He turned toward the dirt road that ran along one side of the cemetery. “I did not drive here. I flew. I can sing upon myself, and so change my form. I will now give us some transportation.” Without another word he began to sing. It seemed to be in Finnish, for it was both strong and drawling, but more melodious than they remembered. As he sang the air above the road—''thickened. It grew murky. Solid shapes appeared with a hard thud as if condensing into being. Power flowed in every note. At every pulse of his music the ground seemed to ripple. Bit by bit he sang into being an old car, of a strange antique shape, gleaming as if plated with copper: and it was running. “That takes a bit of doing, I’ll admit,” he said, walking around it and examining it critically. “To sing of such a complicated engine one needs to know many strange words, words even Wipunen did not know for such machines did not exist in his time. But the words that I learned of craft-making and the machines of his time were roots that underlie all machinery or works of craft; and others I was given by the Earthsinger before I set out.” “You can just—sing stuff into existence?” Chris exclaimed as they climbed in. Root drove. The car’s motor groaned and growled, but it worked. Jerkily they proceeded to drive up the dirt road to where a paved street met it. “Did you think my tales were fiction, laddie? Did you think I sang of fantasy? I spoke the truth. I do not create; I produce effects from pre-existent matter. I sing, and if I know the right word, I have authority over that which that word governs. Once common men could sing so also—but that has passed as the Music dims, and only those who have authority can still compel obedience. Such as John. Or myself.” “How did you beat them, when he couldn’t?” “When you know the beginning of something, that gives you greater power over it than even the possession of the right word. Two stories illustrate this. Väinämöinen once tried to win the Maiden of the Rainbow. She set him tasks she thought were impossible: but when she saw his power she called to his axe, and it bit deep into his leg; for it was an enchanted axe, and could cleave even his immortal flesh. “He sang upon himself, but the spells on that ax were such that to close that wound he had to command the maker of the wound, and to do that he could not. He searched in his head all the words that he knew. None fit. The blood still running, he turned to the Maiden of the Rainbow and called on his blood as witness against her; cursed her off her rainbow, cursed her into the company of the daughters of Louhi. Then he went throughout his homeland, asking man after man if perchance someone knew a word he didn’t, someone else had heard a new word, from the mouths of dying creatures, from the throats of birds new-slaughtered. Thus he came upon a farmer who sang unto his lonely fire, for he was no mighty singer, but only a music-loving farmer. He asked him for the origin of Iron; for he realized what had escaped the hero, that to close the wound he must rebuke not only the axe but the very nature of Iron itself, and to do this he had to know its’ origins. So Väinämöinen told the farmer how Iron was birthed within the Music, took fright when told he must be consumed by Fire, how he hid in stones and swamps, taking an oath he would never harm Man his master and his brother. “Then the farmer rebuked Iron, telling it of that oath broken, how at last it had now done harm to the very Singer himself, him who was birthed out of the Music: commanding Iron by its’ nature. And Iron yielded, and that wound closed and the blood ceased to flow, and he could heal himself: seven boatfuls he had shed. He was very difficult to kill.” “He chose the right element.” said John Wimbledon. “Iron forms the base of blood cells.” “True, though in those days we only saw effects and had not yet figured out causes.” said Root. “The other story is from the wars of the Sampo. Lemminkainen the war-wizard, lusty hero now immortal, set out to avenge an insult given him by old Louhi. Forth by ship he sailed northward, sailed in war-gear full of fury. Then the toothless witch Louhi called the Black-frost of the Northland, sent him out upon the sea-crests, gave the Frost-cold these instructions: “Freeze the wizard in his vessel, freeze to death the wicked Ahti.” So the Frost thundered south, and you could see it by the cloud of exploding trees, their sap bursting in their boles, like a grey darkness that cleft the forest. And he crouched on the shore and the sand stuck together, and the rivers were solid and the ground was like a stone: but only on the shores did the sea freeze. '' '' ''“When the second night Frost lingered, '' ''He began to grow impatient, '' ''He became a fierce intruder, '' ''Fearless grew in his invasions, '' ''Freezes everything before him; '' ''Sends the fiercest cold of Northland, '' ''Turns to ice the boundless waters. '' ''Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, '' ''Grew the ice on sea and ocean, '' ''Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, '' ''Fell the snow on field and forest, '' ''Froze the hero's ship of beauty, '' ''Cold and lifeless bark of Ahti; '' ''Sought to freeze wild Lemminkainen, '' ''Freeze him lifeless as his vessel, '' ''Asked the minstrel for his life-blood, '' ''For his ears, and feet, and fingers. '' '' '' ''Then the hero, Lemminkainen, '' ''Angry grew and filled with magic, '' ''Hurled the black-frost to the forges, '' ''Threw him to the fiery furnace, '' ''Held him in his forge of iron, '' ''Then addressed the frost as follows: '' ''"Frost, thou evil son of Northland, '' ''Dire and only son of Winter, '' ''Let my members not be stiffened, '' ''Neither ears, nor feet, nor fingers, '' ''Neither let my head be frozen. '' ''Thou hast other things to feed on, '' ''Many other heads to stiffen; '' ''Leave in peace the flesh of heroes, '' ''Let this minstrel pass in safety, '' ''Freeze the swamps, and lakes, and rivers, '' ''Fens and forests, bills and valleys; '' ''Let the cold stones grow still colder, '' ''Freeze the willows in the waters, '' ''Let the aspens freeze and suffer, '' ''Let the bark peel from the birch-trees, '' ''Let the pines burst on the mountains, '' ''Let this hero pass in safety, '' ''Do not let his locks be stiffened. '' ''Or thine origin I'll sing thee, '' ''Tell thy lineage of evil. '' ''Well I know thine evil nature, '' ''Know thine origin and power, '' ''Whence thou camest, where thou goest, '' ''Know thine ancestry of evil. '' ''Thou wast born of evil singing '' ''Bitter notes of mighty Hiisi '' ''When he sang within the Music '' ''Sought to change the Theme Immortal '' ''Sin-begotten by thy father '' ''Of no mother but Dishonor '' ''Brother to the ancient Giants '' ''Foes unending, the Frost-giants.” '' “Then the Frost yielded to the singing of the hero, made a bargain for his person, but would not release the vessel, nor unfreeze the mighty ocean. So perforce Lemminkainen walked ashore and back to homeland, walked upon the frozen sea-plain.” They pulled into Super Stop & Shop, and Root turned off the engine. “We have an errand here, at least.” he said. “Your mother still needs her flour.” laughed John. “And we have a witch to hunt.” The four of them went inside. Root hummed a single powerful note, and a bag of flour hurtled like a blur through the air and into his hand: the exact brand the boys had tried to purchase. The witch was still at the cash register, smiling her dangerous smile as she handled the long line. The four totally ignored the line, stalking up to the register from the exit side and plunking the bag of flour down with a thud. The girl looked up. She saw them. Then she saw the two boys. Somehow Chris rather doubted the pale makeup was now needed on her face. “Wh…what happened?” Her voice was a tight squeak. “I outsang them.” said Root. “I am here for you.” The witch screamed. Glass burst. Shoppers all around reeled, clutching their ears. Even John and Root were startled. In that one instant the witch vanished. Root put the flour wearily into a bag. “I should have seen that coming.” he said dryly. “At least all the security cameras broke, too. Come, boys. Let’s get you home.” The boys were feeling so tired by now they went to sleep while Root and John were loading the bikes, left locked all this time outside the store. They woke up long enough to mumble goodbyes as the two men unloaded the bikes at their house. The ancient car drove off. Chris was too groggy to care that there were still a few hours of daylight: he wanted to sleep. He flopped down on his bed and began to dream. Back to The Men in Brown